


Steps of Passing Ghosts

by Pigeon



Category: Vampire Chronicles - Anne Rice
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-20
Updated: 2011-08-20
Packaged: 2017-10-22 21:05:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/242578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pigeon/pseuds/Pigeon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Louis whistles as he walks deeper in amongst the trees and bushes.</p><p>Some will run from the sound of his approach, others will come closer, looking for money, or violence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Steps of Passing Ghosts

_Listen._

 _With faint-dry sound,_

 _Like steps of passing ghosts,_

 _The leaves, frost-crisp'd, break from the trees_

 _And fall._

\- November Night- Adelaide Crapsey

  


  


 _Smash._ Somewhere up ahead a window breaks and loud voices scream obscenities and accusations. _Mother-Fucking whore! Never should have married you._ Dull thud of a body hitting the wall. _Cheap bastard. Did you know Barry came on to me at the wedding? Should have let him. Should have…_ Silence.  


  
Elsewhere music is dialled up louder. _Day tripper, Sunday driver, yeh._ And the scent of meatballs and garlic grows. _It took me so long to find out._ Pen scratches over homework, cheap biro scrawling half-thought out answers. _And I found out._  


  
Louis pauses beneath the open window. A new song comes on, not Beatles this time, something more modern, newer with heavy drum and base and words you can't quite make out. In the sixties he'd been… San Francisco already? Maybe still on his way there- driving through the night, stopping in cheap motels during the day, sleeping in the bathtub, quilts piled on top of him. He'd gained a bit of anonymous celebrity for a time- the Desert Killer, the guy who slaughtered hitchhikers and gas-jockeys all along the highway towards California.  


  
He'd hummed to 'This Boy' in that big shiny car. Didn't like it as much as his motorbikes, his beautiful pale green and cream Triumph Bonneville, but cars were safer, just in case…  


  
Just in case he didn't find a place to rest.  


  
When he should dig himself into the ground and lie beneath the dirt.  


  
But couldn't.  


  
Louis carries on, walking through the narrow alleyways.  


  
 _I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry._ The voice is interspersed with throat-tearing sobs. _I'm sorry I didn't mean to I'm sorry I'm sorry._ Louis rubs at his head. _Sorry's mean nothing. Pathetic._  


  
He and Armand had been staying in a dacha at the turn of the century. It had been miles away from the local villages, set deep in the Russian countryside. At night the stars had been so bright, so near.  


  
They'd been to the opera in the nearest town, arriving back at the villa a few scant hours before dawn.  


  
"You hate the opera," Armand had stated. "I know you hate it. Why do you not protest?" He'd caught his hand. "When I arranged for the tickets, before we left tonight, when we took our seats; why didn't you say you did not wish to attend? I know you hate the opera."  


  
He'd given a small shrug.  


  
"Can you not even be bothered to give me an answer?" Armand pulled his hand to his chest, half crushing it there.  


  
He'd smiled.  


  
And pulled away, walking out across the damp, dewy lawn.  


  
"I'm sorry," Armand called after him. "I'm sorry for all of it."  


  
He didn't stop.  


  
"I'm sorry."  


  
Louis shakes his head. The sobbing has fallen away to nothing.  


  
Turning a corner, he avoids a pile of rotting cabbages, mangy unfed dogs sniffing at them, their fur coming out in clumps.  


  
Steam thick with the smell of chips and oil and the burnt off-cuts of meat is vented out into the alley. Voices thick with a muddle of accents called out orders and insulted the patronising customers.  


  
Louis skips out the way as a crate of fish heads is dumped out in front of him.  


  
"Lipame poli," a man calls out.  


  
Louis smiles and nods at him.  


  
Above him a child begins crying, tiny lungs screaming out fear and want. A woman shushes it, and croons. _Twinkle, twinkle little star._ A light flicks on, sending dull red tinted rays down to the back street below. _How I wonder what you are._ The stars were invisible here, deep in the city. _Up above the world so high._ Blocked by the halogens and florescent tubes, the light pollution insurmountable. _Like a diamond in the sky._  


  
Claudia would have the occasional nightmare when she was newly born.  


  
She would wake with tears scrolling down her soft fat cheeks, and cling to him so hard she threatened to bruise.  


  
He would push back the lid of the coffin and light all the lanterns in the room. She always refused to tell him of what she had dreamt.  


  
And Lestat would come and cuddle her, and whirl her about until she laughed, and then take her out and buy her an armful of dolls.  


  
And Lestat would murmur as she played happily that he wished all such melancholies could be eased so.  


  
And he would nod and think of his own bad dreams.  


  
Louis hurries on, moving quickly away from the sound of the tearful child.  


  
It is autumn, and the wind howls down the narrow gaps between buildings. A tramp is huddled in a doorway, sleep slowed breaths with a hint of the whiny cough that will soon kill him, no doubt, rising above the rough nighttime sounds.  


  
Lestat had liked to call him a tramp sometimes. Back when he shunned the heat and intoxication of mortal blood, when his face took on a gaunt skeletal look, and he had not the strength to stay awake the entirety of the night.  


  
Also later.  


  
Lately.  


  
In this late twentieth-century age when the gathering holes in his clothes are forgotten and ignored, and elbows and knees poke through, and flashes of his ribcage are seen through threadbare jumpers.  


  
And Lestat will shake his head and call him _tramp_ and shower him with gifts of expensive tailored suits that will go untouched for months.  


  
Louis gives a half-smile and drops a tight roll of fifty-dollar notes by the tramp's feet.  


  
He walks on, moving out onto the main street, weaving between cars as he crosses the road, stepping into a dark park.  


  
There are lots of noises here.  


  
The soft snuffle of nocturnal creatures, muted grunts and gasps from the thickest shadows, teenage laughter and the clink of beer bottles.  


  
He lays a hand against the rough bark of a tree.  


  
Up to the age of fourteen he used to climb trees.  


  
Clambering up twisted gnarled branches, sitting motionless for an hour or more watching crows nest and take wing.  


  
He liked to believe that no one could find him when he hid amongst the leaves.  


  
It took him years to realise the truth that they just humoured his childish little idea.  


  
Louis takes a brown, brittle leaf and crumbles it in his hand.  


  
Parks are not peaceful places, they swarm with cutthroats and junkies and everyone else who doesn't, can't, and won't belong.  


  
Louis whistles as he walks deeper in amongst the trees and bushes.  


  
Some will run from the sound of his approach, others will come closer, looking for money, or violence.  


  
In the garden behind Rue Royale, Louis had sat by the fountain in the short hours after midnight and before dawn.  


  
He had splashed water on his face, and abandoned his frock coat on the path, its hem caught up with a hydrangea bush.  


  
"What could have upset Merciful Death on such a fine evening?" Lestat stood on the balcony, blond hair tied loosely back, wide mouth twisted into an almost smile.  


  
"Leave me alone, Lestat." He hadn't been surprised when Lestat had laughed and leapt neatly over the rail, landing just in front of him.  


  
"How could I possibly leave you to your woes and melancholies?" Lestat knelt before him, hands sweeping back Louis hair, running down the side of his face, skimming across his bottom lip. "No, Cher, then I would not be here to see your tears, and kiss them away."  


  
"You're a monster, Lestat, and you're a fool if you think to see me cry."  


  
"I'm sure if I were to try, I could have you weeping for all of eternity."  


  
"I am in no mood for your games tonight." He pushed Lestat's hands away from him. "I merely want a moment's peace."  


  
"Is that all you want?"  


  
Louis didn't answer.  


  
"I asked you a question."  


  
"And you demand an answer?"  


  
Lestat smiled. "I've always been a very demanding person."  


  
Louis laughed despite himself. "I shan't argue with you."  


  
Lestat winked at him, "Well, that'll be a first!" He stroked Louis' white stockinged ankle lightly. "You'll upset Claudia if she sees you in a state."  


  
"I'll be fine."  


  
"I would," Lestat began, "I would kiss your tears from you, if you'd let them fall."  


  
Louis shook his head, then shifted down to sit beside Lestat on the cold flagstones. "I think I believe you."  


  
And then he kissed Lestat.  


  
And he divested them of their clothes.  


  
And he didn't tell Lestat of what had distressed him  


  
An owl hoots and Louis listens to the scurry of small nocturnal rodents.  


  
 _I'm not sure. My dad would kill us. I'm not sure I'm ready._ There's the unmistakable sound of zips and poppers and buttons, general disrobing. _You know I love you. It's just I've never… You know I've never…_ Louis throws a glance to a dark space between two bushes. _Don't you trust me? Don't you think I'll make it good for you?_ Louis laughs. He remembers being given the same speech when he was no more than fifteen. He remembers giving the same speech less than two years later.  


  
He moves deeper to the park. Here are the eternal noises of couples's deep into one another. Gasps. Sighs. Groans. Occasionally he can distinguish a sound more akin to pain than pleasure  


  
He continues to whistle. A young man, with unremarkable brown hair, and unremarkable brown eyes slowly moves towards him.  


  
"Do you have the time?" The young man smiles. The young man moves closer.  


  
"For you?" Louis smiles back at him. "Yes."  


  
The young man touches his chest, his face, runs his fingers through his hair. Louis tugs him tight up against his body and slowly sinks his fangs into his neck.  


  
And the blood is just as thick and rich and heady as it has always been.  


  
And Louis almost feels drunk as the swoon hits him, and he falls to his knees cradling the body of the young man to him  


  
Armand would find him when he was still in the midst of the swoon.  


  
Armand would find him in the back streets of Lyon, Budapest, Moscow, rapidly cooling body by his side, flush of new blood on his face.  


  
Armand would find him and kiss his lips, and face, and down his throat, pull open his shirt and kiss his chest.  


  
Armand would find him and drive his fangs into the flesh and muscle above his heart.  


  
And Louis could never remember much of what happened after. Blurs of heat and sensation, cool, firm lips against his skin, back arching, body jack-knifing, and the slow descent to an alley and a corpse and a satisfied smile on Armand’s face.  


  
Louis takes a razor blade from his pocket and slashes at the brown haired, brown-eyed boy’s throat. He takes his wallet and keys and the St. Christopher around his throat. He dumps the corpse behind a straggle of hawthorn bushes.  


  
 _Lost. Lost amongst the wolves. Silly moon._ Sing-song voice. _And you took me dancing. One-two-three one-two-three one-two-three. Don’t step on my toes!_ A girl, ragged hair, ragged dress, barefoot and swaying. _No more sunrises, no more sunrises, no more sunrises._ She spots Louis, stares at him, smiles. _Golden sun burn you up. Little girl waiting. Lion’s roar._  


  
Louis frowns, steps towards her slowly.  


  
 _When the hurly-burly’s done, When the battle’s lost and won._ Macbeth. Second Witch. Act I, Scene I. _What bloody man is that?_ Louis shakes his head and turns, heading for home. _What! Can the devil speak true?_ The girl laughs.  


  
The moon is lower in the sky and Louis pauses at the exit to the park, leaning against the gatepost.  


  
Macbeth had never been his favourite. He’d liked Hamlet, King Lear, Measure for Measure. But they’d seen Macbeth together a hundred times, perhaps more, at the different theatres in New Orleans, more recently in London in the West End, in New York, in Madrid. And on delicate celluloid, Orson Welles, Jon Finch in the slick modernised interior of Rue Royale.  


  
“What?”  


  
“Oh, I’m just waiting for you to declare your intention of putting on a one man show on Broadway.”  


  
“Don’t think I’m not tempted.”  


  
Louis laughed. “The Thespian Lestat.”  


  
“You, Monsieur, are getting to be far too cheeky!” Lestat pushed back his hair. “I was a great actor, you know.”  


  
“I should do, you’ve told me often enough.” Louis clicked off the television set.  


  
“Ah, my dear provincial little fledgling… You’ve never known the joy of opening night, the rapturous applause, the entire audience wanting to sleep with you…”  


  
He raised an eyebrow. “Quite.”  


  
“…All those sweet innocent little maids fantasising about you, coming back stage, offering, through blushes, to kneel and suck your…”  


  
“I was in an amateur production once,” Louis interrupted.  


  
“Oh? Do tell.”  


  
“Daniel in the Lion’s Den.”  


  
“Not quite Molière or Corneille, cher. You were Daniel?”  


  
“Not quite.” Louis smiled, glancing away from Lestat and over to the open window.  


  
“No, of course, you must have been the angel. My beautiful angel Louis.” Lestat kissed him lightly on the cheek. “I can just see you as an angel, complete with halo. So pure and bright and untouched…”  


  
“And androgynous? Non, I was not the angel. I was one of the lions.”  


  
Lestat blinked. “You were a lion?”  


  
“I was only seven at the time, ‘Stat. It was for Sunday School.”  


  
A drunk, ripe with sweat and urine, wanders unevenly up the street. Louis starts for home again, cutting through the back streets and running quickly across roads, dodging the traffic.  


  
He slows as he sees the lights on in the flat. Bright yellow illumination flooding out of every window. He smiles. Lestat has never been able to bear not having light everywhere.  


  
 _I’ve heard it said that the thrill of romance can be like a heavenly dream._ Billie Holiday. He quickens his step again. Lestat knows his weakness for Billie. _I go to bed with he prayer that you’ll make love to me._ He slips his key into the lock, steps through into the hall, and shuts the night out behind him.


End file.
